


someone lives here (I think)

by edvic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Books, Falling In Love, Ghosts, M/M, POV Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/edvic
Summary: Due to unexpected circumstances Tom ends up sleeping in the library he works at. Haunted by his past, he focuses his anger on the notes scribbled in book margins.





	someone lives here (I think)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [queerofthedagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger) in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two) collection. 

> Based (loosely) on the following prompt by queenofthedagger:
> 
> _Tom loathes people who write in the margins of Library books and leaves little post-it's in them whenever he comes across them, with long rants why it's a shit move. Harry finds them and writes back._
> 
> I feel like I took it and ran with it, but please enjoy! It was a lot of fun to write.

He says his goodbye at the corner of Oxford and Leopold and takes a few more steps into Oxford, making sure no one sees him come back to the library. He uses the spare key and doesn’t switch any lights on. He knows exactly how many meters are there between the front door and the office in the back. There’s an old single bed there.

No one knows Tom’s doing this and he’s pretty sure it’s not even legal. But he doesn’t have a choice and he’d rather stay here than crash on someone’s couch. Abraxas thinks he’s renting a room somewhere he can’t have guests. Dumbledore thinks Tom lives near the fish market because they’ve run into each other a few times. But the truth is Tom had to run away in the middle of the night because the guy he thought was his - maybe - forever turned out to be an absolute psycho. Running away from home was one thing but running away from someone he trusted turned out to be so much worse.

So he opens the closet no one is using and thinks about the clothes he has to wash tomorrow. He brushes his teeth and takes his contacts off. His glasses are new and he feels weird wearing them because  _ he  _ bought them, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. He looks good in them, but he can’t forget about the price he had to pay.

The bed is short and his feet keep hanging off the edge and Tom knows his back will be killing him in the morning. But it could’ve been worse.

The thought helps him fall asleep.

*** 

It’s seven minutes past midnight when he wakes up and he doesn’t know what it was that ended his rest so abruptly, but there had to be something. A noise maybe. A nightmare.

His t-shirt is sweaty and clings to his skin. He doesn’t like it.

He turns the torch in his phone on and pours himself a glass of water. It tastes slightly off. Maybe the pipes are old. 

Slowly, his eyes start seeing the shapes of things and the world around him becomes real again. He’s not sure if he’s up for it right now, but his brain is awake and his left arm hurts from sleeping on it.

He sighs. It sounds loud in the dark and he feels his body shake as the air leaves his lungs. His feet are cold.

He goes back to bed. His thoughts are scattered and keep going to places he doesn’t like. The old flat, the bed he used to sleep in. It was warm and for a while he felt so safe in it. Like never before.

The sheep in his head keep running and he loses count.

Something cracks in the other room. Tom opens his eyes. It sounds like steps and reminds him of his grandparents’ house. The wooden floor did that all the time. Every Christmas he promised himself not to be afraid of it and every Christmas he failed. Someone was coming for him, he used to think.

Now, he thinks it’s the building talking. It’s not that scary. If there’s a chill on his neck, it’s only because the windows are old and leaky.

He reaches for his phone again. Sleep just won’t come back, he knows.

He opens the book in the middle, he’s read it before. There’s a comfort in coming back to something he knows. The bed makes a dangerous sound when he turns to his side.

_A hundred suspicions don't make a proof_, he reads. It stings. He really doesn’t want to go there, not now. Not when he’s alone and so desperate under the surface he’s been trying to keep impassive and calm.

The words in front of his eyes melt into each other. His chest feels heavy and hot and in so much pain. His fingers curl into fists.

He doesn’t want to feel all these things.

He blinks.

The words are there again, but it’s not the print. 

They’re scribbled so messily he can’t make anything of them in the faint light.

He feels something new. Anger. He knows that feeling well.

And so, he holds onto it.

***

He writes back whenever he sees a note in a book. He knows pretty damn well the chance of reaching whoever wrote them in the first place is almost nonexistent, but he doesn’t care. His anger drives him. 

***

The library is closed on Thursdays. That’s when they do all the paperwork. And repairing.

There’s a pile of classics he has to go through after another school year and the thought alone makes him tired. He had his own books once. And he cared so much. He’d never eat and read at the same time. 

It’s the seventh copy of _Great Gatsby_ that catches his eye. There are notes here and there in the other ones and he adds pink post-its to them, trying to make them sound threateningly, but this one… He’s seen it before, hasn’t he?

_I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity_, he reads. It’s underlined and there’s an arrow leading to the margin. There, it says _I felt that_. 

There’s another post-it in his hand but he’s not sure what to write on it. Nothing comes to mind.

Then, Tom writes _I felt that too_.

***

There’s a picture on the wall opposite the front desk. Tom keeps forgetting to ask Dumbledore who's in it, but he's pretty sure it's the founder of the library and his family. A small one, just like his own used to be. Dad, mom, himself. And just like him, the son in the picture is an almost perfect copy of his father. 

He tries to stop his thoughts again. There are so many things he doesn't want to think about these days. He misses his old bed.

He goes back to the book in front of him. Someone brought it back in the morning, he thinks, but he can't figure out who. The number on the card doesn't match anything in the archive. Odd. Maybe just a mistake though. 

He leafs through the book. He finds a note. It doesn't even surprise him. It's been happening more and more often. As if someone's playing with him. He'd suspect Dumbledore but it's not his handwriting. For some reason Tom thinks it has to be someone younger too. Someone in love, he thinks.

_I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you–especially when you are near me, as now,_ he reads. _It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame._

He thinks that he's felt it too. That he'd want to feel it again.

_It costs a lot to feel_, he reads on the right margin.

_I'm willing to pay_, he writes.

***

It's always the third book on the second pile, he realizes one day. Somehow that person knows the days it's Tom's turn to work on the catalogue and the returns. He's not sure how because even he doesn't know in advance.

At night, the floor keeps cracking.

***

_ Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else. _

Some days Tom has to wonder if he’s not making these notes himself. It’s almost as if that person is reading his mind. It’s getting scary, he thinks. Maybe he’s like his mother after all. His father always said he’d end up like her.

Who are you, he thinks.

_You know me_, says the note. 

It’s not his own handwriting, is it?

He hears a sound somewhere in the foreign literature section. The library has been closed for over an hour now.

He’s not scared, he tries to tell himself. But maybe he is.

Still, he gets up. He has to be sure. If he’s alone, if there’s someone following him. If he’s going insane.

There’s no one in foreign literature. No one in romance either. Poetry’s empty too.

He looks everywhere, but there’s no mistake. He’s alone. It makes his heart heavier.

Outside, it’s dark already. He can hear the rain, but no cars.

When he sits down at the desk again, he thinks something’s different. For a long moment he’s not sure what.

Then, he looks at the book. He’s left it open, but the page has changed. The page and the note.

_ One thing. _

_ Come closer. Listen... _

He listens. But he doesn’t hear anything.

***

He waits all night long. All he can hear is the beating of his own heart and the rain outside. 

***

Then, when he’s sure his brain is making it all up, someone appears.

It’s a sunny Saturday, exceptionally warm for October, he thinks, and the trees outside all look gold. They’re not, but the illusion is breathtaking. He thinks sometimes illusions are enough.

He recognizes the man easily. It’s the son from the photo on the wall. He’s older, Tom thinks. His eyes are green and soft and doesn’t match the season.

“Hello,” Tom says, not sure what else would be appropriate. What does one say to a ghost? 

“Hello,” the man says. Tom thinks his voice is on the edge of cracking, like the floor at night. 

They look at each other. Tom feels awfully seen. It makes him think of undressing. Undressing for another man, he thinks. It’s been a while since he did that.

He thinks that, maybe, he misses it.

“How can I help you?” He says.

The man smiles.

“I’d like to borrow a book.” 

***

Harry borrows many books. He leaves notes for Tom in every single one of them. Tom writes back. It’s like letters and like being in school again too. It reminds Tom of that boy he liked, the one with hair like wheat. He’s not sure what his name was, but he liked pears. And lemonade.

Harry doesn’t like pears. He doesn’t like lemonade either. In fact, he never eats or drinks, but they don’t talk about it. Maybe Tom does sometimes, but he tries not to. 

Harry’s like a never ending spring, even if his skin is cold like a lake in winter. He tastes sweet when they kiss. And when Tom undresses for him, Harry looks at him like no other man ever had. Like Tom’s a piece of art. Or maybe like he’s a book. Harry’s favourite.

Tom has enough money to move away from the library, but he doesn’t. Every evening he tells himself he will, but then the floor cracks under Harry’s feet. He has to stay.

***

“Why don’t you ever appear in the morning?” He says one night. 

They’re on a blanket on the floor because the bed it too narrow for the two of them. Harry’s hand is still on Tom’s thigh.

“What do you mean?” Harry says. He’s looking at the ceiling.

“Why can’t you stay?” Tom says. “For once?”

“I want to wake up next to you,” he adds after a pause.

He’s looking at Harry, but Harry’s still looking at the ceiling.

The silence keeps growing between and around them. Like a wave that’s about to crash, Tom thinks. It makes him uneasy. Harry seems sad. Or maybe angry. Tom’s not sure.

“It’s impossible,” Harry says in the end. His voice is small. 

_You know that_, Tom reads the rest from the way Harry’s hand moves away from his body.

“Why?” He says nonetheless.

Finally, Harry looks at him.

“Because you’re dead.”

***

Harry disappears. Tom laughs. Surely, it can’t be real. It can’t be. He goes through his day and it’s no different from the last one. There are no notes in the books, but it’s Harry’s fault, not his. 

Not his.

***

He’s not sure how much time has passed. He realizes he’s not sure what day it is. Or what month. He thought it was autumn. The leaves were gold, weren’t they? And it was raining the other day.

He looks for a calendar, but can’t find any. The archive is closed and he can’t find a key. And the desk… Did someone move it? He thought it was standing near the window.

At night, he can’t sleep. He’s sure someone’s walking in the other room.

But when he gets up to check, he’s alone. He’s terribly alone.

***

It may be true, he thinks one day. He’s no longer sure. Would he know if he was dead? How does one even realize, he wonders.

He reads a book, he finds a note. 

_Are you still there,_ he reads.

“Yes,” he says. “I am.”

***

He thought it was autumn, but it has to be spring. Early spring. In the afternoon the white walls look gold in the sun and blue in the shadow.

Harry appears out of nowhere or maybe Tom does. Maybe Harry’s there all the time. Maybe it’s Tom who can’t live in the daylight.

They kiss and Harry’s hair is so nice to touch. Tom undresses for him in foreign literature and Harry kicks a few copies of _The Plague_ off the shelf. Tom wonders who’ll pick it up. Is he a friendly ghost? A guardian? He thinks he’ll ask Harry one day.   
  


***

He knows they can’t wake up next to each other. Because of him, it’s obvious now. It must be much worse for Harry than it is for him. He tries not to think about it. He’s good at it.

_Perhaps we were friends first and lovers second,_ he reads in Harry’s book. He takes a pencil and underlines it. _But then perhaps this is what lovers are._


End file.
